Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels. Jack had thus been six hours in accomplishing his arduous task. At least for one moment, it was. Go away now, there’s a good lad. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. I guess she used to pick on her for being big and fat. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated.
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